Talking It Out
by alynwa
Summary: Originally written for the Picfic Tuesday on LJ. After a horrific nightmare, Napoleon decides to tell Illya what is happening.


Illya and Napoleon stood in front of the door and stared at it. It was only five feet tall and near the top of it to the left hung a large key ring with four keys on it. The Russian turned to look curiously at his partner. "Why are we here?" he asked.

Napoleon huffed in exasperation. "Like I've already told you, Partner Mine, I came here yesterday and I really think you'll enjoy what's in there. A friend of mine brought me and when we opened the door, the first thought I had was 'This will suit Illya perfectly.' Use the big key to turn the lock."

The blond shook his head and smiled. "Only you can get me to go into an unknown, unsecured room, Napoleon. I trust you completely," he remarked affably as he reached for the key and unlocked the door. Beyond it was only darkness. "Where is the light switch?"

"Right _here!_" Napoleon snarled as he suddenly placed both hands on the smaller man's back and propelled him hard into the room. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door shut just as the growling and screaming began.

"_Napoleon! Help me, HELP ME!" _His voice was silenced and the only sounds now emanating from behind the wooden door were guttural, wet and gnashing.

"NO!" Napoleon yelled as he came awake wild – eyed and sweating. He looked around, half expecting to see that door behind which some unspeakable monster had devoured his partner. _Because I fed him to it. _Instead, it was the familiarity of his own master bedroom. He looked at his clock on the nightstand. _Twelve thirty._

He rolled closer and grabbed his communicator. "Open Channel K."

A few seconds later, Illya's voice erupted from the device. "Yes, Napoleon?"

"What are you doing?"

"I am not on assignment and it is late at night; I am sleeping or I _was_," came the annoyed reply, "Has Mr. Waverly summoned us?"

"No, nothing like that. I, ah, have to talk to you. I want to come over now."

"What is wrong, Napoleon?"

All the annoyance and sarcasm that had been present in Illya's voice disappeared and was replaced by concern, causing Napoleon to feel worse. "I'll explain when I get there. See you in about a half – hour."

Illya answered his door and said, "Bozhe moy, you look terrible! Sit, I put your scotch out."

Napoleon sat on the Russian's couch and scrubbed his face with his hands. "I don't want anything to drink. Illya," he started and then spread his hands wide, "I have a confession to make: I've been having nightmares. Really, really _bad _nightmares that involve you. Wait, hear me out. My nightmares have changed since _The Gurnius Affair. _Lately, they've been about me killing you."

Illya's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. "You…kill me," he said.

Napoleon stood and began to pace. "Yes. In the beginning, they were accidents. I didn't mean it, but tonight…"

"Tell me, _moy droog._"

"Tonight, in my dream, I planned it. I played on our trust and friendship to trick you so a monster could eat you. I, I, felt that I should tell you."

Illya stood up and headed to his kitchen. "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

"What?"

"I find I do not want a drink either, so I am going to make hot chocolate; I will make some for you if you want."

"Fine, whatever. Thank you," Napoleon rubbed his face again and then jammed his hands into his pockets. "Aren't you going to say something about what I just told you?"

There was no answer from the kitchen, so the CEA shrugged his shoulders and sat to wait for Illya to return. Several minutes later, Illya handed him a steaming mug of cocoa with a few mini – marshmallows floating in it. "I see you've learned how to cook," he joked mirthlessly.

The Russian sat on the couch next to Napoleon and sipped his drink. Finally, he put his mug down and asked, "Am I still your best friend, Napoleon?"

"Of course."

"Am I still your brother?"

"Yes."

Illya turned so that one leg was folded underneath him on the couch and he was facing his partner. "Do you, do you still…love me?"

Napoleon closed his eyes and searched his heart. He lowered his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest. "I do," he whispered as he raised his eyes to look at the smaller man staring back at him. "But I am so _angry_ at you! And I don't know how not to be! Not yet. You hurt me."

"I know." He put his hand on Napoleon's shoulder. "I am sorry for what I had to do, but you know the reason why I did it. Something else is going on here. What is it you are not telling me? Why are you so angry?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. Why are you so angry?"

"I don't know!"

Illya lifted his hand from Napoleon's shoulder and grabbed his arm and shook it. "_Why _are you so _angry _at me?"

"_Because you scared me!" _He shook free and stood. "I was strapped to that table, powerless, and I was _afraid of you._ I thought you had it in you to kill me."

Illya drank more of his chocolate. "Oh. Are you afraid of me now?"

Napoleon relaxed visibly. "No, I'm not."

"That is a good thing. I am glad you told me what is bothering you, Napoleon. I think you will find that telling me and admitting how you felt will prove cathartic. I trust you to have my back. Do you trust yourself?"

Napoleon smiled for the first time since arriving at Illya's apartment. "Yes and I do trust you to have mine. Thanks for the insight, Dr. Kuryakin," he said with a hint of sarcasm.

Now it was Illya's turn to smile. "I _am _Dr. Kuryakin, you blockhead. And as someone with more than a layman's knowledge of psychiatry, I will tell you that you can kill me a million times in your dreams and I will still be here. You can beat me up in your dreams whenever you like as long as it helps you resolve your feelings so that our partnership survives."

"Thank you, Partner Mine." He checked his watch. "It's ah, three twenty – five. I'm going to head home."

"We have to be in the office in less than six hours. You have a spare suit at HQ; just go get in bed and get some sleep."

"I will. Thanks again, Illya."

Ten minutes later, both men were asleep in Illya's bed. Napoleon's sleep was blissfully dreamless.


End file.
